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T W E N T Y O N E
- Madeline -
I don’t know what disturbed me more: the fact that I woke up to Quinn passed out in my bed or the fact that I hadn’t heard him come in. Not that I was terribly surprised by the latter. After twelve hours of moving garment bags from one clothing rack to another and taking an entire Salsalito burrito to the face—along with enough chips and guac to feed a mariachi band—I expected to be in a food coma until Monday morning.
Seriously, though, what was he doing in my bed?
Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I tried to piece my hazy thoughts together while I stared at his upper lip, which was crushed against my spare pillow in an Elvis snarl.
He’d come home late every night this week, and I’d assumed he wasn’t coming home at all tonight. I considered texting him to make sure he was okay since it’s in my nature to panic when I think my roommate is avoiding me, but I didn’t want to seem needy. Instead, I watched a documentary about Valentino and pretended my thoughts were occupied by more important things than the fact that Quinn was missing in action.
What time he got home was a mystery, but he smelled like he’d been in a club, and I could see the trail of his work clothes between my bed and the door. How drunk was he that he didn’t see me sleeping here?
My eyes drifted over the curve of his strong back to where his fitted black boxers hugged his hip bones, and I let my gaze linger on the perfect curve of his ass until my mouth felt dry. Unfortunately, there was no way I could reach the glass of water on my nightstand without disturbing him, and if he were loaded, there was no telling how me might react to not knowing where he was when he woke up. Unless…
My hand shoved my silent gasp back in my mouth as the worst thought ever occurred to me, and the more I tried not to think about it, the more it consumed me.
Was there any chance this wasn’t the first time he’d done this? Is that why he’d been avoiding me all week? Because he was bi or gay or maybe…in love with my brother?
The whole idea sounded crazy in my head, but sometimes drunk people were more honest than sober people. Scratch that. There was no sometimes about it. Drunk people were always more honest.
It felt wrong to even humor the idea for another second, but I was already halfway down the rabbit hole, following the crazy trail of thoughts. His clothes supported the theory that he might be gay, as did his flawless head of thick black hair. I wondered if he would wake up if I dragged my nails through it? Or worse, mumble my brother’s name in his sleep.
I shuddered. It wasn’t that I would love James any less if he were gay. Hell, I’d probably love him more if he’d listen to me rant about fashion and my relationship problems. Like the fact that I’d tried to seduce his gay roommate a week ago, for example.
Except James had never done a single thing in his whole life to make me—or Maeve—think he was gay. He didn’t have any suspicious music fetishes, and I’d never caught him looking at anyone’s nails ever, including his own. Granted, I only had stereotypes to go on. But surely my gay friends would’ve told me in high school if they ever suspected that my brother’s heart wasn’t truly in fingerbanging every girl on the tennis team. Ugh.
Then again, why wasn’t he into Alicia? She was thin and rich and clearly dying to choke on any bone he might throw her. Was that what this whole London thing was really about? Him trying on a new life?
My heart ached at the mere suggestion that my brother might hide something like that—or any part of himself—from me. After all, we were so close we often phoned each other at the same time, and he was the only person on earth I’d trust to order for me in a restaurant if I was running late. No, the whole idea was ridiculous. Too ridiculous to think about and certainly too ridiculous to warrant me getting up to call him in the middle of the night…even if it was morning over there.
I imagined him paying for an Americano at a trendy coffee shop decorated with black and white photos of popular London landmarks, all the while making eyes at a pale girl across the room as she dipped a crumpet in her coffee. Or were crumpets an afternoon thing? Maybe they weren’t even for dipping at all. I certainly couldn’t imagine the Queen dipping a crumpet. Then again, she probably had a person who dunked her crumpets for her and— Oh my god. Stop the madness!
I hated when my thoughts ran away in the middle of the night like this, especially when it was over something so outlandish. After all, getting a girl off with the hard seam of her jean shorts seemed like the kind of specialized knowledge only a straight guy would know. And he took me shooting, for chrissake!
Unless that was a cover but… No. He’d checked me out so many times that night. And he kissed me. That should be proof enough. Guys who weren’t into girls didn’t go around kissing girls. I tried to imagine Quinn making out with a guy and shuddered. Even my overactive imagination couldn’t quite get there.
Still, I guess I had to ask him what the hell was going on. Because either he was gay and harbored a secret desire to sleep with my brother or he had a socially unconscionable way of admitting he wanted to sleep with me. And both of those possibilities were deeply disturbing.
Honestly, what kind of weirdo rejects you, avoids you, and then sneaks into your bed when your eyes are closed? I mean, a thin thread of perversion was probably normal for most people, but this behavior was unacceptable.
Even if I did sort of wish he’d throw his arm around me.
